In Other Words
by inkspiration
Summary: "One day, they're gonna ask, 'Where were you when the war ended'" 1945 AU. Marvel/Cato One-shot


**I understand Fly Me To The Moon by Frank Sinatra wasn't made in 1945, but I adore the song and this era, and I was like, "What the heck, it's an AU, let's do this." **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

It's the summer of 1945. Your usual routine ensues: waking up and washing the sleep out of your eyes, dressing yourself in your fedora, white button-up shirt tucked into your black trousers, secured by suspenders. You adjust your glasses and comb your greasy blondish hair with your equally as filthy fingers. You have no broad, no beautiful wife. You're a small, skinny man that goes by the name of Marvel, works at a bar and hopes everyday that your best buddy, the '_Career_', Cato, comes back alive.

You wish you were with him. You can't be though, you're not fit enough, you have too many medical issues.

You really, really want to send that bastard, Adolf Hitler, to the pit that is hell, _personally_. But no one will let you.

So you gather your wallet, put on your work shoes and walk towards the bar, head hanging low as you pray for this war to end.

You're not disappointed.

* * *

It sure is a sight at the bar that night. The bar is usually drab, the stools empty, the dim lights melting against the glass, the pianist, Glimmer, usually playing some slow song as some drugstore cowboy tries to pursue the Sheba out of her spot on the piano chair, always rejected. After the announcement on the radio of the simple words: "The war is over!" repeated and repeated, all of America is sobbing in happiness, and there are parties, parties, _parties_. And what do you do when you have a party? You get _drunk_, of course! The bar is busier than it's been in years, the soldiers are back, dames are dancing all around, laughing and kicking their heels off ordering drink after poisonous drink. The lights seem brighter, the stools are occupied, people in colorful clothing and too much makeup, Glimmer giggling like mad, even letting a man drape his arm around her shoulders as she plays a lively tune.

I ain't never made this many tips in my life. My co-worker and close friend, Darius, is getting more than me though. I can see why; he's funny, grins a whole lot, is a fantastic flirt, has that lovable fiery red hair that looks soft to the touch, while i'm an awkward, greasy young adult, who can't hold down a serious, business like job. When people see us, they think, why aren't _they_ in the army?

Then they see Darius' cast-clad leg and understand. Then they look at me and think i'm a lazy, selfish brat who has no intention to serve their country. Truth is, I respect this country more than anything, and I love America, would do anything to serve, have tried everything. But every time, I get turned down again and again. It's awful frustrating.

Now it's over, and they never gave me a chance. I'm being bitter about it too.

"One day, they're gonna ask you: 'Where were you when the war ended?'" Darius sighed at me with a flutter of his eyelashes, looking dreamy.

"And i'll say, 'Not in the army,'" I mumbled with a pout, crossing my arms. "I was serving terrified wives of brave soldiers at a bar, their looks saying, 'Why isn't _he_ in the military, fighting for our country?' Drinking themselves into oblivion, tryin'-a forget their loved one's lives at risk, while I sit here, doing nothing about that Hitler bastard."

"Marvel, ya _know_ why we couldn't enlist," he grunted, his beam faltering not once. "Just be happ-ay! The war is over! Hitler's dead!" his already hoarse voice cracks and his taut throat lets out a sob of happiness. I like his voice, the way he says "why" sounds like "wah-y" and the way he smashes words together. We both have a thick Brooklyn accent as well.

"They never even gave me a chance," I sighed, looking down at my hands. I know what Darius is thinking:_ You woulda died the first step onto the battle field, those Nazis woulda shot your brains out_! I can read it in his dancing, cheeky brown eyes. My asthma alone stopped me from going to war, let alone my insomnia, ADHD, paranoia, the list goes on and on.

The doors fly open, smacking the walls, and the fast-beat piano music comes to a screeching halt, the dancers turning their heads to the interrupting offenders.

Someone says it before I can: "Now _those_ are soldiers!"

Standing in the doorway were the duo that brought the world to it's knees. Men wanted to be them, women wanted them, even before they joined the army.

Gale and Cato.

* * *

Darius is the first one to react to them. I'm speechless, frozen in spot, cause it all seems so surreal. The man I always recognized as my best friend looks crazy perfect. Sure, he has a few cuts on his lips, but he has grown in his exile. He's stronger looking, his arms are veined madly, his hair cropped and his blue eyes glowing in the bright light of the bar, the night sky behind him loud with cheers, as if the world were applauding him. His lips parted to reveal his perfect teeth as he smiled. Darius' best friend, Gale, almost looks better. He's wearing a half-smirk, his brown eyes half-lidded and his scars across his neck making us two look like children.

Darius speaks to me, his features probably matching mine, his expression of surprise, his eyes carrying a torch on Gale as he says, "Son of a gun, lookit 'em!"

I nod and find my voice, saying, "I see 'em alright..."

"Haymitch musta really whipped 'em into shape," he muttered, speaking of the General. The dreamy look he possesed before had blown into one of only a single identifiable expression: admiration. Or maybe more; _adoration_.

I kind of just nodded and gaped in reaction, "Now _they_ are Darbs." I muttered, sweeping my bangs off of my forehead in an attempt to look keen.

Glimmer continued to tap on her piano, beginning a new song, the melody similar to that one song by Frank Sinatra I never cared to learn the name of, then swimmingly switching to Jimmy Dorsey, then back to Frank. All the music now was jazzy and happy and I loved it a whole lot. The music in the 20's was too loud for my taste, it had calmed down to a playful, loving genre, not like when every song was filled with the lyrics of sex, sex, sex.

The thought of sex still made me nervous. I sure wasn't swanky or ritzy or anything like that, no, but I acted like it when people asked me about my virginity. I would act like I was way too swell for someone, that my body was sacred and perfect, when in reality, no one would actually want it.

Can I keep my mind on track for a _moment_ even?

The two soldiers strode over to us, almost vainglorious in their spiffy apparel, compared to Darius' and I's simple work clothes with the rolled up sleeves and beer stained fedoras. Their suits were obviously new, Gale's navy blue, Cato's black, their hats silky grey and their hands shoved deep into the pockets of their broad-shouldered jackets.

"I missed you," Cato's mouth moved but I was simply staring at him as if he were a stranger. His smile wavered and his head tilted in confusion at my silence because so many things were running through this thick head of mine, I could hardly breath. Finally, I found my voice and said the first thing I always thought when he entered my bar back in days.

"You ain't gettin' a hooch?" I grinned. Hooch, or bootleg liquor, was a popular thing a few years back, and Cato always spent his money getting ripped off on it. Sure, it was cheaper, but it sure didn't taste hotsy-totsy. Finally, when he would get scammed one too many times, he would plop himself down at my gin mill and fork over the money for guaranteed real giggle water. "It's good to 'ave you back."

His big arms wrapped around me in a tight hug, which I returned, holding onto him firmly and tight, scared if I would let go, a Nazi would scoop in and bump him off. I began to shake with realization.

The war is _over_.

Gale and Darius, on the side of me, were much more in depth with their reunion, grabbing each other's hands and looking into their eyes as if they were a silly steady couple. They were just begging for a 'Hi sugar, are you rationed?' from some nit-wit passing by. The District 12 kids were always more affectionate. This part of New York is divided into neighborhoods, which we call the 'Districts.' It seemed as though the lower the number, (1-12) the more arrogant and more of a big shot you were. Cato was from District 2. I was from 1.

Once I parted with Cato, he grinned widely, "Look at you! You've changed a whole lot since the last I saw that keen face of yours," he said, cupping my cheek. I laughed wholeheartedly.

"Me? Have you gotten a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, lately?" I asked, gesturing to him with my hand, "You certainly have gotten buffer!"

"You certainly have..." he took a moment to observe me. "I mean. You've just... _changed_!"

I try to think back to the last time I saw him. Two years ago? Three? In that time, I've gotten taller, but not gained any weight. My teeth have been straightened and bleached (costed a bucket-load of money) and I got glasses, as well as growing out my uneven bangs I let my little cousin cut. I had been a joke.

Someone in the bar had begun to sing- I think it was the dark haired girl, Katniss - the song Glimmer was playing.

_"Fly me to the moon,_  
_Let me play among the stars,_  
_Let me see what spring is like,_  
_On a-Jupiter and Mars._"

Cato turned to me and held out a hand, "Would you like to dance?" I raised my eyebrows.

"With _me_?" I clarified.

"No, with the beer bottles," he snickered. I glanced around at my surroundings, everyone dancing and having a good time. Katniss' hair was woven in an intricate braid and she was dancing with the baker boy (who was too young to go into the army), the two singing a duet into the microphone. Glimmer and that swanky man were sitting on her piano bench, drinking some wine. Darius and Gale discussing what it was like on the battlefield.

It seemed too early to talk about it, to me. I think we should just celebrate.

"Alright, even though i'm not supposed to leave the bar," I mumbled.

"The war just ended! You think your boss gives a-"

A look is shot in his direction from the girl that looked like a fox a few stools over.

"Excuse me, m'am," he apologized respectfully, grinning at her. She saluted him and returned to her half-drunk, solemn haze.

"_In other words, hold my hand _  
_In other words, baby, kiss me_."

I walked out from around the bar, enough to let him get a full view of my skinny, drab body. "Is this queer?" I asked in my all-American voice.

"Does it matter?" he questioned in return, nodding towards the corner of the bar, where the beautiful Finnick Odair and a very giggly Gloss were kissing each other.

"Whata lounge lizard," I mumbled, uncertain about which one I was talking about, grabbing the Manhattan's I had been making from the bar and handing one to Cato.

"Gee, thanks!" he beamed, taking the drink. "You didn't forget it was my favorite." he said, taking a generous sip.

"How could I? I thought about you everyday," I said, downing about half of the glass. (I have _very_ high alcohol tolerance.) Plus, we wrote to each other everyday while he was on the battle field. We had been childhood friends. "You think a few years apart could separate us as friends in anyway?" Even though I was still a frail little kid, and Cato was pretty darn hard boiled from all that fighting and training in the army, I wanted to mention. He laughed and nodded and agreed and was just the perfect soldier.

I wish _I_ had been fighting in the war. I wish _I_ could have brought Adolf to his knees. Why was my heart made for the army, but my body not? It wasn't fair! I'm brave!

"You're pouting. What's wrong?" Cato asked, knowing my signature frown.

I was never one to deny any answers, so I reply, "Wish I was in the army."

"It's no whoopee," he said, clapping me on the back. "It sure is tough-"

"I'd do anything to serve! Anything!" I interrupt, slamming my fist on the bar and looking down in frustration. Cato cups my face and makes me look up at him.

"Hey, enjoy the moment," he said with a boyish, child-like smile that makes me ease up. I take a few moments to calm down, before I exhale and smirk, holding out my glass in a toast.

"To America!" I yell out, grinning. The majority of the bar follows, and then were laughing and whooping and drinking.

* * *

I hardly understand what i'm doing, only am aware of the fact that i'm holding onto Cato and moving in some sort of jagged rhythm to Katniss' voice and Glimmer's tune. It had been drink after drink after drink, then I found myself spewing some foolishness about the "planet" Germany, and how we should have just blown it up, then I was dancing with Cato.

So much for high alcohol tolerance.

He was soft, I think. The clothes he was wearing were, at least. I had lost my fedora sometime during my drunken spasm, and Cato had placed his on my head kindly until I was sober enough to clean up the bar and find my own.

Son of a gun, the bar. I'd have to clean up. That'd take forever in my state once it closed. I groaned at this thought, pressing my head against Cato's chest.

"Marvel, let's head to the apartment," the soldier said in concern, holding my shoulders in place before I fell over my own stumbling feet.

"Who's mineoryours," I slurred incoherently. Cato hoisted me up, and I was vaguely aware of him talking to Gale and Darius before heading out of the loud, partying atmosphere of the bar to the loud, partying night in the streets. It seemed the whole continent was celebrating. I tried to say this out loud, but it ended up with me fascinated in Cato's biceps. I found myself kissing them.

The quiet, lonely city I had grown used to walking around in had turned into a world-wide party. Everywhere you turned, you couldn't miss the red, white and blue. Parades crowded the streets, children were up in the late hours, exclaiming victorious. Soldiers were reunited with their loved ones. (Where I assume Cato had been with for the first two hours of the news. With his family, celebrating. Then me.)

"Oh, swell," he laughed, patting my head as we entered a quiet room. It didn't smell like mine (which had the aroma of bubblegum and nicotine), but smelled musty and unused. It was probably Cato's, I realized, as my back hit the bed. I propped myself up on my elbows and observed the familiar room, a large window displaying the city of New York held closed by soft, white curtains, a number of pin-up girls littering the walls, his uniform (made of sturdy, vital fabric) was hung up neatly in the closet, and the bed was covered in a pattern of baseballs. A radio and lamp sat on the dresser beside his bed, baseball cards scattered across the floor.

He changed into a white cotton shirt and tan bedtime trousers before helping me out of my suspenders, shirt and pants, dressing me in his clothes, an exact copy of the outfit he had just dressed himself in. It was bit too big for me, but I didn't mind. He lay down beside me on the bed, and I turned to face him, wrapping my arms around his neck. "I missed you so much, cool cat."

"I missed you too, punk." he replied, kissing my head.

I hum an appreciative noise, trying to explain to him that I worried about him every time I thought of him. It made sense in my head, though drowned in Manhattan, but when the words passed my lips, I began sobbing. He tried to calm me down by running his fingers through my side-swept bangs and uttering hushed, lovely words, but it didn't work very well.

Finally, as he pressed his lips to my own in an order to shut my running mouth, and I began to feel amazing, my eyes fluttered shut, leaving me an unconscious mess.

* * *

When I awoke the next morning, I was relieved to remember it was my off-day of the week, keen to know I didn't have to return to the bar.

I tried to sit up, but my head throbbed in response and I hissed in pain, my eyes adjusting to the sunlight flooding the room. In an effort to go back to sleep, a familiar voice rang out, making me flinch.

"Look who's up!" Cato laughed, entering the small room.

"Ngh," I grunted, grabbing my glasses of the nightstand and adjusting them on my face, "What happened?"

"War's over, we won," he said with a beam, laying down beside me with a cocky expression on his face.

"I know that, fat-head," I muttered bitterly, "What happened after I... you know, drank myself into oblivion?"

"Hey, no need to snap your cap," he said, grinning. I took some time to observe him. Back when we were teenagers, he had been all high-and-mighty and popular. I had been the awkward kid by his side. Now he looked like a hero, I looked like a skinny, useless kid. Maybe because that's what we both were, and we knew it.

Okay. I'm jealous.

"Okay, so how much did I embarrass myself?" I ask instead, facing him.

Cato makes an expression that makes him look like he's counting how many times. I shove him with a laugh, "Okay, okay."

"No, it wasn't that bad," Cato assures, patting my arm. I sigh and roll back my shoulders. "You, um, tried to sing," he says, trying to hide a wide grin with his hand.

I hide my face with my hands and groan, "Shit."

"No one will remember," he promises, "They were just about as drunk as you were. If not more."

"I'm so getting fired," I say.

"No, I think Darius covered for you," he shrugs. I silently thank him and make a mental note to give him a bear hug next time I see him. I feel an uncomfortable, familiar rising in my throat and churning in my stomach.

I scramble up, stumbling off the bed and running into Cato's bathroom, wrapping my arms around the toilet as I puke the toxins in my body into the poor bowl. Cato entered the room and pulled my bangs back, rubbing my back while I vomited violently.

As soon as I get a breath, I choke out, "You're a good friend," before I begin to throw up again.

* * *

I sat at Cato's small wooden dinner table, sipping water and swallowing aspirin. He sat across from me, watching me with an amused grin. It was almost mocking.

"Okay, I get it, I shouldn't have drank so much," I mumbled, shaking my wet hair. Cato had insisted I wash myself, and to be honest, it felt pretty good after so long. "So tell me, what was it like?" I ask enthusiastically.

Cato drank his coffee silently for a bit, "I can't explain it in a word, Marvel." he muttered.

"I'm not asking ya to," I shrugged, "Did you enjoy it or not?"

"Knowing you could die at any moment? Your friends falling to the ground in bloody heaps? Being held hostage by enemy forces? Hearing the word 'Grenade!' and just hoping you could have that split second to run? Oh, it was a grand time!" he said in a huff. He took a few moments to continue with, "It felt nice to serve though. Know that with every Nazi you killed, you were saving another person, getting this much closer to ending it."

It took Marvel by surprise. He never really wanted to kill someone, he just didn't like bullies. He took a shaky breath before asking, "...Who did we lose?" in a sheepish voice. Cato's silence was concerning before he finally answered, "Thresh."

Thresh was the big, tough guy from District 11. He had a girlfriend and a little sister, Rue. He had palled around with us for a long time, and practically made the 3rd member of our group. He was like my brother.

The stillness that followed was in respect to the lost solider, both of our heads down and out hands clasped. After a while, I finally spoke.

"How?" I asked hoarsely.

Cato took a shaky breath, "Shot to the head." he mumbled, "In Italy."

"How long ago?" I inquired, taking a sip of the water.

"Two months ago," he answered, his hand going for his shirt to tug on. There's another quiet moment between us, before Cato stands up and turns on the radio. It's playing some fast-paced trumpet song, which he switches to the baseball game. I stood up, shaking. This was far too unbelievable. Thresh was _gone_.

It was only a few years ago when I had gone to his house and knocked on the door, asking for a band-aid because my mother had run out.

Cato approached me, wrapping his arms around me.

The past hours have been exciting and terrible and depressing and made me want to grin like a knuckle-head. In an effort to contain all of my mixed-up, hormonal emotions, I kissed Cato. Hard. On the lips. His mouth danced back against mine, moving his hands to my neck. When we pulled away, I finally took a breath and mumbled:

"I'm sorry I puked in your bathroom,"

* * *

**Please excuse any mistakes involving the era and grammar mistakes. I'm just a kid! D: **

**Liked it? Hated it? **

**Please review!**

**EDIT: Happy Fourth Of July for one thing! God bless America, if you live here. **

**Anyway, this is a ONE-SHOT. I meant to put that the first time and I know my crappy ending leads you to believe differently. If I do get any other ideas, I will most certainly continue this! **

**God bless. **


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